Chapter Three
Isla held the parchment in her hands with fingers that would not seem to stop trembling. Her winged brows scrunched in confusion, and she looked up to peer down the stone corridor once again.
She could hear nothing and no one now, not even the fading footsteps that had so quickly padded down the hall. Remembering her father's mood, she ducked back into her bedchamber and shut the heavy door behind her. Isla took a moment to lean against the wood for but a moment before unfurling the sheet of parchment.
The writing was scraggly and hasty; it seemed like whoever had written her the note had been in quite the hurry.
Isla, my dear, the letter read.
It's time that you learned the truth about your birth and your father. I'm sure you have many questions upon receiving this note, but you mustn't let anyone know about where you are going, child. Meet me in the village of the MacThomas clan, south of Robertson Castle. Follow along the forest, keeping it on your left side for one night's time. Head west into the treetops; carry straight on for four days, and you shall reach me. Forgive me; that is all I may tell you. Time is of the utmost importance if you want to discover the truth.
She must have read the letter thirty times over, but still, Isla could not comprehend what she was seeing.
What did the letter mean, 'the truth'? What truth was there to discover?
And about her father... What could that mean?
Isla wanted more than anything to disregard the letter, to go out to the loch and swim to her heart's content and perhaps take a ride on Brigida. She could rejoin her sisters in the garden, pretend that she had never read the scrawled letter. Perhaps she could even steal a dram of whisky from the larder and drink it all on her own; she would fall about laughing in the solitude of her bedchamber, her head full of stars.
But she could not.
Isla could not hesitate a moment longer, it seemed. She clutched her cloak about her and began stuffing a rucksack. She threw together one more dress and a deerskin of water and a pouch of gold coins that she had held on to for some time.
The village that the letter spoke of was nearly five days’ ride south of her home. It would be a risky venture, but the note seemed sincere.
And hadn't she heard her father speaking harshly about her even this morning?
Her stomach dropped as she replayed his words in her mind. He had been afraid of her discovering some sort of truth; she had heard him say it in his own voice. Isla put her head in her hands. Something wasn't right here, and she was determined to discover what it was. Isla hoisted the rucksack over her shoulder, making sure that no one was about, and slunk down the stairs.
Five days would be a long time with no food to be had. Isla was decent enough at foraging but had never had to put her skills to the test in the wild moors alone. She crept down to the larder to stuff her bag, careful to be as quiet and as casual as her trembling body would allow.
Isla had nearly made it through the great hall and down the stairs into the larder when her heart leaped into her chest.
"An' where d'ye think yer off to with that rucksack, young maid?" a stern voice sounded from behind her.
Isla shrunk back, one hand on the steel door handle. She nearly let the rucksack fall away from her shoulder in shock but held it steady. She turned to face Fingal, her father's most trusted general. The man's shock of orange hair stood out against his ruddy skin, and a frown was marked deep on his face.
"Oh," Isla said, her shoulders sagging. "I, ah... Well, Fingal, it looks as though ye've caught me."
Fingal straightened, but his frown intensified. "I did?" he asked.
"Aye," Isla said, letting her voice drop in disappointment. "I was goin' to take off with a dram of mead for my birthday and drink half the bottle on my own. Oh, go on with that face, Fingal! It's jus' a wee pochle of mead, it'll nae even be missed, and that's a fact."
Fingal sneered at her as though he didn't believe her at first, and she braced herself for him to call her father straight away. She closed her eyes, waiting for the booming voice to sound through the corridor, but she heard nothing but Fingal's laugh. It did not sound particularly friendly, but then again, Fingal had always been a hard man.
But now, his eyes were smiling.
"Aye, lass," he said. "Go on ahead then. I'll look the other way, jus' this once. Dinnae say I never gave ye anythin' for yer birthday, eh?"
Isla smiled uncomfortably but tried to stay as natural as possible. Fingal pushed the larder door open for her to slink into, and she did, thanking him quietly once more with a small smile.
I cannae believe that worked!
She had little time to celebrate and so immediately got to work. She grabbed what she needed, taking care to spend as little time in the larder as possible, in case Fingal was still waiting for her in the corridor. With her pack stuffed full of wrapped breads, cheeses, and one or two hunks of goat meat, she slid out of the door. It thudded shut behind her.
Fingal was not waiting for her in the hallway; it turned out. Isla took that as a good sign and let out the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
The evening was drawing to a close, and the sky had purpled in the sunset. Isla crept down through the main hall, careful not to attract any attention. She pushed open the castle doors with only a bit of a struggle and slunk into the night like a thief, making her way to the barns where Brigida was held.
